


Grey

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock delighting in Lestrade's grey hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey

"I like your hair," Sherlock says, and Lestrade glances up, suspicious at the compliment.

"Is this the bit where you mention how old and grey I am?"

But Sherlock simply smiles, eyes still focused on the grey tufts beneath his fingers. He pushes his hand in further, tugs at the strands a little. He's clearly fascinated.

"I remember you when you were completely dark - it made you look boyish."

Lestrade shrugs, lying slightly further down the bed than Sherlock so that his shoulder brushes against a firm chest when he moves. "Must be knowing you then," he says, still wondering vaguely where this is going. Sherlock is never very tactile, and especially not after sex. All this lying around touching is unusual.

Nice, but unusual.

"Did you never think of dyeing it?"

"You just said you liked it," Lestrade frowns, looking up to where Sherlock is resting on his elbow. The change of position pushes that hand further into his hair.

"I do, no need to get defensive," Sherlock says, finally taking his eyes off his hair.

"It'd look stupid," Lestrade tells him. "I mean, look at Phillip Schofield."

Sherlock frowns. "Schofield? Another one of your Scotland Yard goons, I presume?"

"Television presenter," Lestrade replies, ignoring the insult, and Sherlock just snorts. He's above television, of course - he's above everything.

Then even more unusual than the touching, Sherlock just holds his stare. Not gazing, exactly, but looking. Really looking. So much so that Lestrade starts to feel uncomfortable, considers looking away until he realises Sherlock is inching down to kiss him. He angles his face up to meet him, surprised by the cool of Sherlock's lips, the soft brush of his tongue. Sherlock only very infrequently kisses him like this, lips always parted but never anything more - sometimes when a case has been very difficult or he's taken by a particularly intense burst of desire Lestrade will feel the faint brush of a tongue along his lower lip, and it will always drive him insane. The thought of it distracts him sometimes, when he's particularly lonely, but he's learnt not to push it if Sherlock doesn't initiate it first; it's rare, and all the better for it.

The kiss is slow and precise, Sherlock very much in charge as he lifts himself away slightly, just enough to be teasing so that Lestrade wants to arch up off the bed to ask for more. He doesn't, though - he has his dignity.

Lips brush down, ghost over his, move away again and again until Lestrade feels his heart rate upping, realises his breathing is a little out. He tries to calm himself down, makes an effort not to reach up for the back of Sherlock's neck - pulling him down would be a sure way to lose him.

"You should let it curl at the back," Sherlock says against his lips, and it takes Lestrade a moment to process what he's said, his mind not the best place for coherent thought at the moment.

"Curl?"

Sherlock hums against his mouth, causes the vibration to run right through Lestrade's chest. "Let it grow, it would curl at the back of your neck. Make you look disheveled."

Lestrade swallows, shamelessly lifts his chin to catch a kiss, grateful when Sherlock replies, lets him have what he wants.

"I'm too old," he says, and opens his eyes for the first time, discovers Sherlock has had his open all along. His likes to kiss like that, watching Lestrade respond.

"You think no one would have you?"

Lestrade watches him, unconsciously licks his lips. He nods.

Sherlock kisses him again, slowly. "I'd have you," he says, his voice thick, and Lestrade has to physically restrain himself from arching upwards, to press himself firmly against Sherlock's body. There is a clarity in his eyes that tells Lestrade he knows what he's doing, teasing him, pushing him. He tries not to respond.

"Never knew you were so opinionated about my hair," he manages to say, glad his words aren't slurred like a two-bottle drunk.

"Hmm," Sherlock hums, glancing up again to the black/grey strands he still has his fingers nestled in, tightens his knuckles a little, pulling the soft hair into a messy state.

"It distracts me," he admits, and Lestrade finds himself glancing down to Sherlock's lips. He knows how that feels.

"Perhaps I should get a hat?" He suggests, a smile curving gently at the corners of his mouth. He feels a pull of satisfaction at the way Sherlock's eyes snap back down to his, expression alarmed.

"Don't be so barbaric," Sherlock replies, and Lestrade hears himself laugh easily.

"Right, no hats."

Sherlock narrows his eyes warily. "You're going to get a hat now just to piss me off, aren't you?"

"Naturally."

The smile seems to slide off his face as Sherlock's stare becomes more serious, more concentrated again. He does this, snaps from playful to intense in a matter of moments. Lestrade has had to grow used to it.

He lets himself be scrutinised, lies patiently, tries not to be uncomfortable.

If anyone else did this he would attempt to look away, break the mood. But he knows Sherlock does it not to be difficult but just rather because this is what he does - studies the things most interesting to him. Sometimes he gets more fascinated than others.

"Turn your head," he says, and Lestrade nearly doesn't hear him.

"Pardon?"

"Turn your head," Sherlock repeats, and Lestrade does so, wondering what the hell could possibly be coming up.

He shuts his eyes, encouraging the sensory deprivation, and as though Sherlock knows this he does nothing for a few moments. Then just when he's beginning to wonder if this is just a game, Lestrade almost jumps when he feels soft lips on his jawline, the vague brush of stubble. He doesn't bother to hide the tremor that runs through him, and Sherlock makes a noise akin to a very soft growl against his skin. Lestrade gets that urge to shift against him again, but holds it back. It doesn't pay with Sherlock to be too willing, too pushy.

"Fuck," he hears himself exhale as a tongue darts out and _licks_ at him, at the hollow over his pulse-point, and his toes curl under the soft duvet. "Sherlock..." he says, and though it's clearly not a question, Sherlock hums in reply anyway.

Short, fastidious nails slide lightly along his scalp, fingers curling in the shortness of his hair and Lestrade tilts his head ever-so-slightly so that Sherlock can dip further down, kiss right in along the base of his hairline. If he didn't know better, Lestrade would say that Sherlock was planting kisses and then butting against him gently, nestling in. If he didn't know better.

Finally unable to bear it any longer, Lestrade lifts the arm that has been lying between their bodies, plunges his hand into Sherlock's own soft curls, fingers gripping at the strands. And then he turns his head back, feels Sherlock get the picture and almost seamlessly their mouths meet again, lips damp and willing sliding over one another.

If he had any will left, this would break it, feeling Sherlock's tongue sweep against his, the warm huff of breath caught against his the one tell-tale sign that Sherlock reveals to show this is affecting him too, usually so unaffected.

"Makes you look distinguished," Sherlock mutters, and Lestrade feels himself frown.

"What?" He asks, kissing the lips against his again, unwilling to lose the sensation.

"Your hair," Sherlock replies, and even in this state there is a slight note of exasperation in his voice.

"Oh, right. Like Richard Gere?"

Sherlock continues kissing him, but the next time he speaks he finally sounds distracted. "...Who?"

Lestrade smiles against his mouth, pulls him down closer. "Doesn't matter," he replies.


End file.
